


Imposter Syndrome

by j520j



Series: Everybody Loves Aziraphale [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Real Person Fiction, The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Everyone Needs A Hug, Loneliness, M/M, Writers deserve love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-10-20 17:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20678942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j520j/pseuds/j520j
Summary: Aziraphale/Neil Gaiman - sometimes a writer needs inspiration and comfort.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Síndrome do Impostor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20678525) by [j520j](https://archiveofourown.org/users/j520j/pseuds/j520j). 

> Part 4 of my Crack/Aziraphale series! - one-shot stories. You don't need to read the others to understand this one.

Neil got a call from Karen Berger, his editor, congratulating him on Sandman magazine's new print run. Season of Mists had just begun and the first issue, # 21, had hit the comic shops and sold out in no time.

"This is certainly the best thing you have ever written!" the woman's voice sounded distant from the international call, but her happy tone was palpable. “Readers will freak out when the next issues come! I can't wait to see the drafts of the next storyline! "

“Yes, yes, I already have some ideas in mind.” the good thing about the international call was that it was hard to tell when the person's voice was lying.

"Wonderful! Fax me next Monday!”

"Uh, sure, Karen."

"Cannot wait! Till next week!"

Neil hung up the phone, clutching the receiver. He hadn't thought of anything new yet. Season of Mists was really the best thing he had ever written so far. It was a great joy to be able to devise such a brilliant plot, but it was also a great sadness.

_Shit, how am I gonna get over this storyline?! I will never make it! _

Neil had been in this game for just over ten years, writing for newspapers, magazines, until he could achieve his dream of writing comics. And he had achieved something that few authors are capable of: making history. His Sandman had already broken several barriers in the industry and was currently the best-selling magazine in the United States.

_How I’ll surpass this?_

It was not easy for him to deal with Impostor Syndrome. The feeling that his fame and success were too big for the person he was. Who was Mr. Gaiman, after all? Just a yokel from Portchester who was fortunate enough to meet Alan Moore and other great authors who catapulted him to major magazines, such as 2000AD, and then to major publishers, such as DC Comics. At least that was what Neil thought of himself, as if at any moment they would discover that he was a scam and that his extraordinary texts were just pure luck.

"Like Richard Madoc." the author began talking to himself as he stared at the blank screen of his computer. “An average little writer who has been fortunate enough to write something great, but who has no idea how to write something as good as, who will say better! Ugh, does Karen suspect that when I wrote “Calliope” in Sandman issue 17, I was creating an alter ego?”

Too much pressure, too much haste, too much irritation. Neil needed to go for a walk. He turned off the computer and went for a walk on the icy streets of London.

He walked for almost an hour aimlessly, just following the path his feet took him. He needed ideas. New ideas to compose at least one draft story to present to Berger next week.

That was when he realized he had arrived in Soho. Walking through the streets, he decided that it would be a good idea to go into a pub and have a drink, watch the movement and see if any great ideas appeared in front of him. But what appeared before the writer was something better: a bookstore.

“A.Z. Fell?” Neil remembered passing the store a few times when he was around, but the bookstore was always closed. Today it was open.

He entered and was instantly amazed. The place was huge, with bookshelves crammed with rare books. Only by looking at the spine could the writer recognize some precious jewels of literature. He began to find a bookcase with centuries-old editions of Le Fanu, when he heard a soft voice behind him:

"May I help you?"

Neil turned his head and took little fright. He was expecting a boy wearing an 'A.Z.Fell and Co.' apron or some pimply-faced nerd with big glasses, but the man who came before him surprised him.

The man looked like a Dickensian character, specifically a late Victorian gay pub owner. His light-colored clothes matched his whitish blond hair. His manner was polite and his posture was erect and alert, his hands behind his body.

It took Neil a few seconds to answer the almost forgotten question posed a few seconds ago, while nothing quietly he watched the man from top to bottom.

“Yes, I'm looking for some books of, err, mysticism. Something related to magic. ”

"Is Aleister Crowley what you’re looking for?" the man asked, his blue eyes full of inquiry.

“Yes, and maybe something from Madame Blavatsky. Wicca and things like that.” at the bookseller's suspicious expression, Neil felt the need to explain himself “Oh, I'm not a hippie or esoteric nut before you ask! I'm a writer, I'm looking for research material.”

“A writer?” the bookseller seemed happy with the information. "This is good! Writers are always welcome in my store! What's your name?"

"Neil Gaiman."

The blond raised an eyebrow, as if drawing in memory some reference to the name given to him. Neil just laughed and explained “I'm a comic book writer, not a book writer. Well, one day I plan to write books!”

"Ah yes. Comics.” the man cleared his throat. "Well, I'll show you the esoteric session."

Two bookshelves of old books were presented to the writer. Wide-eyed, he began to check some issues. All were rare books, editions older than fifty years. That was the real paradise for him.

“Wow, is this a 1909 Hermetic Order book? Amazing! And this is a book from Astrum Argentum? Holy shit, it's very hard to find anything original from them.” the man flipped through the book and was startled. “Hey, this is a dedication. Wow, George Cecil Jones?!? This is his signature?!”

"Yes, it is!" abruptly, the blond took the book from Gaiman. “Sorry, I think this book is out of place. He's mine and not for sale.”

"Yours? Wait, Cecil Jones died in the sixties! He may not have signed this book for you.”

"Uh, well, it wasn't for me."

“I read the dedication. It is written ‘To my dear friend A.Z. Fell.' ”

“Ah, this was my father… ah, rather said… my grandfather! In my family the initials are the same, generation after generation.”

"Hmmm, I see." the writer turned back to the esoteric bookcase. “This is the Book of Thoth, edition of the forties. Another rarity. Your collection is incredibly good, Mr. Fell.”

"Oh! Thank you!"

“I think I'll take this one. I have always loved Frieda Harris's illustrations.”

"Sorry, this one is not for sale either." the bookseller took the book from Neil again. “Precisely because it's so rare it's here just for, err, to spruce up the shelf!”

_Is it my impression or this bloke doesn't want to sell any books?_ Neil frowned, taking both books back. "Well, don't you mind if I even take a look?"

“Uh, sure, feel free to look. But then put them back in place.”

With a grumpy growl, Neil sat in a nearby chair and began to look through the books. He could still feel the man's eyes on him even from his back.

After twenty minutes Gaiman was irritated by this watch. _Why won't this guy take care of the other customers?_ he thought, looking around. But to his surprise, the store remained empty all the time.

"Sorry for my rudeness, but you have nothing else to do?" he snapped. “You should stay at the door and invite some people in. After all, your store will go bankrupt if you don't sell anything all day long.”

"Actually, we're already closed."

"What?!" the writer rose from his chair. "But it's not even four o'clock yet."

"I'd rather close the store early."

"Heh, how can you keep this place going?" disappointed, the writer put the books he was reading on a table. “Well, thanks for at least letting me take a look at the books. Anyway, if you wanted to get me out, just talk.”

“Oh no, lad! I didn't want you to leave. As I said, writers are always welcome in my store. And the way you read my books with visible passion was beautiful to look at. Sorry if I bothered you with my vigil.”

"Hmmm, apologies accepted." Neil was truly intrigued by this man. "You mean I can stay a little longer here?"

"Please make yourself comfortable," the blond said, gesturing to a more comfortable sofa. “I don't mind if people come to my store and read my books. In fact, I love sharing my time with a good reader. If you want, I can make some tea and we can read together, what do you think? ”

Neil laughed and shook his head, hardly believing such a man could exist. It was the most picturesque bookseller he'd ever met in his life.

"Ok, I can stay for tea.”


	2. Chapter 2

The writer had in his hands the first edition of The Yellow King, signed by Robert Chambers. On the first page was penned 'For my favorite reader, Angel Zacharias Fell'. The bookseller said that was his great-grandfather's name, but ended up doing a flawed act saying that 'Angel' was also his father's name. And that hadn't been the first inconsistency he'd heard from the man.

Gaiman didn't have to be a crime novel writer to realize that there was something very strange about this funny man and that he was certainly hiding something. For a moment he thought it best to leave, for perhaps he had entered a storefront to cover up some illicit business, but the bookseller was so kind and solicitous that this seemed the most unlikely of all possibilities.

"I will definitely make you a character in my future books!" Neil said with a laugh.

"Oh, if you do this, please give me a copy of the book!" Fell looked flattered. "Signed, please."

"Yeah, sure! By the way, I noticed that you leave many of your personal books on display here at the store. It's a little dangerous, isn't it?”

"Indeed! There's always a petulant fellow trying to buy them.”

_A bookseller who doesn't sell books._ Neil gave a mischievous smile. _How does he support himself? Is he from a rich and eccentric family and set up this shop just to mock people?_

The writer was eager to ask many questions, but felt that if he crossed a line he would be thrown out of the store. And he didn't want to leave even though it was already eight o'clock at night. He flipped through Robert Chambers's book under the blond man's assertive gaze.

“I love decadent literature! I'd like to write a mythology similar to this in my books.” said the writer, shortly after reading a passage in which one of the protagonists begins to plunge into a spiral of madness. “I wanted to be able to write things that reverberated in people's minds for months, even years. I wish I had this power.”

“Writers always have this power. Well, at least those who devote themselves body and soul to their craft.” said the bookseller, refilling his cup with black tea. “Even after one hundred and twenty years I still shudder to remember some passages from Salome, my dear Mr. Wilde! Ah, the words of St. John the Baptist reverberate in my mind to this day!”

"Heh, I wonder how you would have been mesmerized if you had watched the classic play, directed by Wilde himself, in 1891!"

"Would I? Oh yes ... it would have been an honor to watch the first performance of the play.”

Neil found it interesting how the man spoke as if he had really known all those dead writers, from Miguel de Cervantes to Albert Camus. His delusional tone was hilarious, but at the same time captivating.

How long had Neil had the pleasure of talking to someone who had such a passion for literature? Well, there was Alan Moore, but this was a tough guy to deal with. Fell was like sunshine, always talking about books and the particulars of established authors as if he had really known them all.

Gaiman almost wished that one day Fell would talk about him and his works with such enthusiasm.

"Do you have alcohol around here?" he asked suddenly. "The tea is fine, but at this time I prefer something stronger."

"Oh, sure!" The bookseller stood up. “What do you prefer, dear boy? A wine? A whiskey, maybe? It's the favorite drink of writers such as Robert Burns and Ian Fleming. And surely a vodka always goes well when talking about Dostoevsky's work. ”

"A wine, I guess."

“Wonderfull!”

In two minutes, a bottle of 1962 Hambledon appeared before Gaiman. _Holy shit, this guy is really rich!_ he thought as he received a glass of wine with a beaming smile from Fell. The two continued talking and barely realized that within an hour they drank the entire bottle. And then another, from the year 1965, appeared on the table, being properly emptied.

When the bookseller opened his third bottle, one from 1970, Neil began to feel melancholy.

"Are you okay, lad?" asked the blond, his voice already slightly softened by alcohol. "I think you got a little over the top."

“Yeah, it should be. I'm more used to beer... ” the writer put a hand to his forehead. “I can't believe you spent three such expensive wines with me.”

“Oh, it's my pleasure! I like to offer my distinguished guests the best I have!”

"Ugh ...!" the compliment made Neil's stomach ache. The bad feeling he was feeling was not the effect of alcohol - well, not directly. They spent hours talking about literature, and as the conversation progressed, Gaiman felt increasingly miserable thinking that he was so inferior to all those masters they were talking about.

"I think I'd better make you strong coffee, dear boy." Fell put a hand on his shoulder. "If you're not feeling well, you can sleep here."

"I don't want to squat at your place."

“Nonsense! I already told you that it's always a pleasure to receive a writer in my— “

"I'm NOT a fucking writer!"

Fell's eyes widened as Neil lifted his head, an expression of disgust forming on his face.

“How can I consider myself a writer?!” he kept talking. “How can I even imagine playing the same level as a master of horror with Lovecraft? How can I dare to consider myself a fantasy writer if Tolkien exists? ”

"Lad, you're being too hard on yourself!"

“Or maybe too soft! Karen, my editor, is always too soft with me. I hate this! Hah! What have I written really good so far? I just recycled comics character concepts ... developed a handful of good ideas, but ... but ... it's not enough! It will never be! Ugh, I feel like a fraud!”

Neil put his hands back to his face, more in shame than sadness. _What a fucking loser I am! I'm pouring my demons on a guy who has nothing to do with it! One of the most scholarly, literature-loving guys I have ever met, and here I am, mumbling like a teenager who failed a test. How pathetic I am--!_

His carillon of negative thoughts came to an abrupt halt when he felt arms wrap around him. It took a few seconds before he realized the bookseller was hugging him.

Under normal circumstances Neil would be quite bothered to have his personal space invaded without his permission, but Fell's embrace was so cozy that he had no choice but to accept it.

"I'll tell you why I like books so much." the bookseller spoke calmly, his voice full of warmth. “Because to me they are like new worlds created from scratch. A new creation. Every writer is a Demiurge, a fraction of God's power. And even those who write 'evil' still carry within them the passion for writing, for creating, for giving voice to imaginary worlds that often become extremely tangible! Only for this I believe that every person who sits before a blank sheet and begins to create worlds about it deserves respect. ”

The writer's face twisted in surprise. A strong emotion began to well up inside him and he feared his eyes would begin to moisten right there. He tried to contain himself as he squeezed the bookseller's shoulders with his thin hands.

“You say that because… because you never read anything I wrote… you don't know if what I write is really worth reading.”

"Who said no?"

“Huh?” Neil pulled himself out of Fell's arms. "Have you read anything from me?"

"Dear boy, I said I met many writers in my life, didn't I?" The blonde's smile was beaming. “I can appreciate, just by talking, a little of each author's work for everything he says, that he likes and believes. And from the little we talk today, I can already see that you are a man who carries not worlds, but entire universes within you! And that weaves them in the form of wonderful dreams. ”

"I think you're being too optimistic about me." was the answer, which Fell just rolled his eyes.

"Ok then! Do this: tomorrow, bring me your works. I'll read them and make an unbiased assessment, okay? ”

"Tomorrow?"

"Sure! Exceptionally, tomorrow I will open the store very early for you! Don't be late, because I intend to make a full breakfast especially to welcome you! ”


	3. Chapter 3

Neil got out of bed earlier than usual. Like most writers, he was a night creature, but decided to make an effort to please his new friend and come early to his store. It took a few minutes to gather some manuscripts of future books to take to the bookseller, but eventually he changed his mind. He decided to take some editions of Sandman and put them in a leather briefcase.

At eight in the morning he was in Soho, in Mr. Fell's bookstore. At the door was the 'Closed' sign, but as soon as he stepped on the sidewalk, the bookseller opened the door for him.

"Oh, glad you come!" the blond man was beaming. “Please, Mr. Gaiman, come in! Breakfast is ready!”

"Mr. Gaiman is my father," said the writer, entering the bookstore and removing his coat, which the bookseller gracefully hung on the old hanger. "Call me Neil."

“Oh sure, Neil! In this case call me, uh... ”

"Angel?"

“Err, yes! Follow me!”

In the center of the store was a table for two with a rich breakfast set. A steaming tea kettle was right in the center, surrounded by scones, cake, Italian bread, scrambled eggs and bacon.

“I hope you enjoy it!” the bookseller pulled a chair to Neil. “If you have anything more specific that you prefer to eat for breakfast, just ask that I go get it.”

“Oh, it's not necessary. I think there's too much stuff in here already!” Gaiman usually just drank some black coffee and smoked a cigarette for breakfast. “Anyway, these are some issues of Sandman I wrote. Unfortunately, I don't have any new manuscripts yet. Please be 100% sincere.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Fell took the comic from the writer's hands. "I'll read right now!"

For the next few minutes there was silence between the two of them, only with the occasional sound of cutlery and cups. Neil didn’t like to eat so early, but he didn't want to offend his host. He forced himself to eat a scone and a slice of bread with eggs and bacon and a cup of tea. He watched the bookseller, who had a fork in one hand and a magazine in the other. He seemed quite engrossed in reading, sometimes frowning and sometimes raising his eyebrows.

When he had finished eating, the writer got up from the table. He decided to look around the bookshelves, trying not to pay much attention to the bookseller. He was anxious, Neil really wanted Mr. Fell to give him a compliment, but he didn't want to show his nervousness. After all, he didn't want to look like a child lacking approval, or anything like that.

The sound of paper being placed on the table made Gaiman tense from where he was leaning, walking toward the bookseller.

"And? What did you think?” he asked, his tone more anxious than he intended.

"What is the second play Sandman will bargain with Will?"

"What?"

“The Play!” Fell pointed to Sandman Issue #19

"Ah, yes!" Neil finally understood the question. “Well, this was one of the ideas I had that I liked the most! The idea of Shakespeare making a deal with the dream lord himself to be famous, heh! I would love to have this opportunity too! But back to the plot: the first play would be for his friends in the world of Faerie: Midsummer Night's Dream.” explained the writer, taking issue #19 in hand. “I admit I only wrote this story because I wanted to do my version of the character Puck! The second piece Sandman will order will be "Romeo and Juliet" because Morpheus is a hopeless and spoiled romantic. And he wants a tragic love story, like his life. ”

"Wait, Romeo and Juliet is not a love story."

"No?!" Neil was so surprised that he almost drop the magazines. “Why not? It’s the most famous love story in English literature!”

"Dear boy, I'm afraid you and most people are wrong." Fell shook his head. “Poor Will! If he knew what his work, which he did to warn young people about how dangerous reckless passion is, eventually became, he would be extremely disappointed.”

“Oh, you talk about the old bard very intimately. As if you had known him.”

The bookseller smiled softly. "Well, I've read Shakespeare enough to know what I'm talking about."

"No shit? If you are that clever, the ‘Romeo and Juliet’ play is about what?”

“It's a play about social order and how it's best to follow it. Romeo begins the play in love with Rosaline, but goes to a party on a Sunday and forgets Rosaline in a second when he sees Juliet. They proclaim themselves lovers at the counter on Sunday night to Monday. They get married on Tuesday. They have sex once on Wednesday. And die on Thursday. If this is a romantic ideal, I don't know what the idea of a bad relationship would be.”

Neil's eyes widened as Fell took another sip of his tea, coolly.

“The idea of this tragedy being an idealized romance is a vision of the penultimate century. Romeo and Juliet, in the end, are not even the most important characters. This role belongs to Prince Escalo, who always comes in to reestablish order.”

"Sad! I always imagined that Shakespeare himself should be an incorrigible romantic, though with a great tendency toward melancholy.”

"Yes, he was. Although the romance he idolized was not love between two people, but one's love for art. Willy could accept any insult addressed to him, but when they spoke ill of his writings ... oh, it was worse than speaking badly of his mother. I believe he was more devastated when he lost an important manuscript in 1602 than with the death of his own son.”

"Now you made him look like a selfish bastard."

"And is there any artist who is not selfish?"

"_Touché!"_ Neil laughed, though with some sadness. "Well ... so what could be Shakespeare’s play to Sandman?"

"Hmmm." the blond looked down, thinking a little. “Apart from the obvious reference to fairy dreams, I couldn't tell which one a passionate dream deity might like. Maybe some of his sonnets? They are certainly much more romantic. Could Adonis's poem be a good option?”

"Not. I wanted something that had impact. Maybe not romantic, but something that really was, like, uh, I can't explain... something that reflected as much on Shakespeare's life as Sandman himself! A parallel between the two, do you get it? After all, Sandman is the Prince of Stories! The second play he would bargain couldn’t be a poor play. ”

"Oh, how about The Tempest?"

"The Tempest?! That last comedy Shakespeare wrote? But this is one of his weakest works! What great impact does it have?”

“The impact of being the last one.”

Neil stopped for a moment, his eyes widening. The ideas suddenly forming in his mind.

"The Tempest was not simply the last piece Will wrote, but the last he wanted to write." the bookseller said, unaware of Gaiman's sudden change of expression. “He really wanted to put an end to his career, his stories, for himself. Without needing the help of Death to enforce its end. He was already exhausted from paying more attention to his manuscripts than to his own life. The final scene in the play, with Prospero breaking his staff and renouncing magic, was a symbolism of Will also giving up his power to do magic with words.”

Fell looked up at the writer and realized he was lost in thought.

"Neil?" he called, softly.

"Huh? Oh, sorry! Brain wandering a bit.”

“Oh, that's good! Having new ideas for your next stories?”

"Sort of." the writer bowed his head and rubbed his arms, as if suddenly the temperature in the room had drop. “I wondered if Shakespeare also had the same feeling as me. The feeling that you’re getting more credit than you deserve. The feeling that, at any moment, someone will find out that you're not a genius writer, just a talentless shit, and all the illusion around you will crumble.”

“Stop talking these things, dear boy.” Fell came over and put a gentle hand on the writer's arm. “I've read it a lot of things, from Beowulf, through The Devil to Pay in the Backlands, up to Waiting for Godot and back to the Iliad. What you wrote is great! And I think it's wonderful that you put so many literary references in comics, it can encourage even more people to read the classics ”

"Yes ... read the classics, because what I write will never be a 'classic' in itself."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." Neil still didn't look convinced.

"Do you really want to know what Will did when he felt his work was bigger than himself?"

"Oh, what did he do?"

"He used to refer to himself in the third person!" the bookseller smiled. “When he said something about his personal life, he used the personal pronoun. But when he spoke of his writings, he referred to himself as someone else. You said, "Hey, Will, I don't think that character is very good," and he said, "Yes, HE was in a hurry to write the lines,’ and things like that. It was very funny! Especially when he was self-critical of his own works, sometimes complaining a lot about ‘that guy's’ writing. It was like he was playing a game with himself!”

Once again, Neil's expression changed. This time it seemed almost as if he had felt a sudden pain.

“Um, lad? Are you alright?"

"A game with yourself..." the writer muttered, his eyes widening. “A game of you!”

"Huh?"

“Holy fuck, do you have pen and paper? I had a great idea! Now!”

In moments Gaiman was sitting at the table, rudely pushing away the cups and platters and writing endlessly on a sheet of paper. He only stopped writing when a dozen sheets were filled in by his quick handwriting.

From time to time Fell would look over his shoulder, noting the writings as he carried the dishes to the kitchen and set some books on the shelf. They exchanged smiles when their eyes met, communicating only with their expressions of satisfaction. Neil for finally being able to develop a good idea for Sandman's next arc. And Fell glad to have helped a writer.

At half past ten in the morning the two men were sipping champagne to commemorate the - at least momentary - disappearance of Gaiman's imposter syndrome.

"I don't even know how to thank you, Angel!" the writer was already filling his third glass. “If I didn't have your support I'd be home by now, banging my head on the keyboard, hoping for some good idea to leak from my ears.”

“Glad I helped you, dear boy! And remember: I want the autographed editions.”

"No worries! I'll have Karen to send the editions signed by the illustrators as well. And I also want you to read the manuscript of the books I am about to release. And remember, always give me your honest opinion, no matter how hard is.”

"I would never lie to a writer."

"Oh, you really are an angel!"

Neil noticed that his comment made the bookseller's cheeks flush. He chuckled, enjoying the blond's embarrassment.

“Err, I just try to be honest! And I am always willing to praise the work of a good writer.”

"I bet you say that to all the writers!"

"Oh, you're quite right!"

"Hahaha! I really need to make you a character in my stories! ”

“A happy ending story, please!”

“Sure! Just like The Tempest! Heh, it really is the best choice to be the second play Sandman ordered. A story where a powerful man gives up his power to be happy. Yes, I don’t doubt that many writers, frightened of their fame, would opt for this.”

“Not just writers...”

"Uh?"

“Nothing.” Fell let out a long breath before drying his champagne glass.

"Being a creator is a strange responsibility," Neil muttered, only to fill the strange silence that had formed between the two men. “I mean, how many people can I have influenced in the world, for better or for worse, with my writings? Imagine an author with more reach than me, like Stephen King? Conan Doyle? Homer? Who was the writer who had the greatest impact on humanity?”

"God," the bookseller muttered, staring into nothing.

"Oh, the bible doesn't count!" smiled Gaiman.

“I don't mean the bible, I speak of God. Creator of the universe.”

"Uh, is God a writer?"

“_In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God_.” Fell quoted, in a placid voice.

Neil felt the impact of that phrase like a kid-gloved slap. As if rubbing his face with a truth that has always been under his nose. It was a strange feeling, still with the information coming from a man named Angel.

Another silence. The bookseller looked toward his empty glass and set it on the coffee table, where the champagne bottle was less than half full. The man seemed alone, lost in the vastness of his particular infinity. The scene seemed to move the writer, for a moment thinking about getting up and giving Fell a hug.

"Why do you writers write?" the blond asked, suddenly rising from the armchair where he sat, walking through the bookshelves.

_I've been asked this question before._ thought Gaiman. And throughout his career he had already given several answers. Some more humorous, some more serious. And he would still have to answer this question countless times in the future. But at that moment something prevented him from opening his mouth to respond. It was as if the weight of his answer was far greater here, in this place, in that moment, for that person, than it was and would be in his whole life.

“I don't know.” Neil had to concentrate not to stutter, slowly rising from the couch and heading toward Fell. "I ... I really don't know."

"To write." the bookseller closed his eyes. “I said I understood the writers, that I knew them, but it's not entirely true, is it? I don't write, I just read. I have this great yearning to read, to dive into diverse creations, to meet those who create! Maybe knowing these little Demiurges called 'writers' I can understand God's mind, don't you think?”

“Maybe.” if Gaiman was already feeling imposing enough just because he was a successful comic book author, imagine being compared to God. “You’ve certainly read more books and met more writers than me, Angel. Why do you think God created the world?”

There was a tangible, thick pause, almost enough for anyone to be choked by it.

"I imagine God must have created the world because... well ... because She was tired of feeling alone."

_She?! _the use of the female pronoun surprised Gaiman, but he continued to pay attention to the bookseller's speech.

“So this what every creator is, right? A loner, writing fantasy worlds to keep him company.” Angel lowered his head. “And the reader is another loner, seeking company in imaginary characters on sheets of paper. And when a writer's work echoes in a reader's heart is the moment when two solitudes meet to appease each other, at least for a moment.”

The bookseller's voice sounded rueful, like someone speaking of a departed friend. Maybe several departed friends.

A strange notion formed in Neil's mind: he envisioned a man in love with the arts, who lived many years, many centuries, in love with the works of great writers. Great artists from all over the world. He identified with characters, with the creators of these characters. He met thousands of writers who touched his soul and he, with his appreciation for their art, touched the souls of the creators back. And then the writers go away - as is the fate of all mortals - and leave behind their works. Pages full of love but cold to the touch. A man in love with literature but whose love of art is not enough to warm his heart - his body - the way he would have wished. A lonely man.

While Gaiman's mind was filled with a strange feeling of sadness, pity and loneliness, his body reacted of its own.

Neil tilted his head and kissed Fell's lips. The blond was taken by surprise, keeping his hands in front of his body, showing his nervousness. The writer thought this was a signal to stop, but was prevented from walking away when he felt the bookseller's firm arms wrap around his shoulders. Angel's lips looked hungry for more and he deepened the kiss.

Gaiman only noticed that his back hit the wall when he tried to step back and couldn't move. Fell pinned him to the wall, kissing him fervently, his tongue tangling in his and occasional bites on his lower lip. Neil's arms came down to the man's waist, his hips beginning to brush, generating heat. Sadness, cold and loneliness, for a moment, disappeared from the world.

For a moment the image of the muse Calliope (which Neil put on as a character in Sandman's issue # 17) came to the writer's mind. The absurd idea of Fell not being human, but a muse in a male body, made him give a little giggle between the kiss.

"What's up?" asked the bookseller, stepping back a little.

"Nothing." Neil smiled. "You’re a very good kisser."

"Oh, you too, dear boy." Fell's blue eyes met the writer's dark eyes. With a sigh, he took a step back. "But I think we'd better stop here."

"Why?" Gaiman asked, holding the blond's hand.

"Because of this wedding ring on your left hand."

"Oh." the writer looked at the aforementioned hand as if noticing it for the first time in his life. "Yeah, right."

“Besides, you came here with one purpose: to get ideas for writing. And now you have a Magnum Opus to create, don't you?”

"True. My deadline is a little tight. But I… I wouldn't want to leave you alone. Much less now.”

"Your writing won't leave me alone." the bookseller smiled, his eyes sparkling with emotion. “It will be a part of you by my side. Forever."

“Oh, you great gallant!” Neil couldn't help but kiss the bookseller's lips one last time. “Here’d my number. If you need a friend to chat, just call me.”

"Thanks! You are always welcome here too.”

Neil said goodbye to the bookseller, leaving the store with a bittersweet feeling in his chest. He stood for a moment on the sidewalk, staring out the windows, watching Fell's figure disappear behind the bookshelves. And it was at this moment that he realized that there was someone else around.

A man wearing a fedora hat and scarf, both black, was staring into the shop window. He seemed distracted until Neil approached.

"Give up, the shop owner doesn't sell any books."

"Ah!" The man was startled.

"Sorry, sorry." the writer raised his hand. “I just thought it would be good to warn. You will not be able to get any book from this store, at most will leave some for the owner to read. He likes to read a lot. ”

"Err, oh, yes, I've heard rumors that the mysterious Mr. Fell is too attached to his own books." the man cleared his throat and scratched his beard with discreet white strands. "Do you know him?"

"You can say yes. He's a nice guy, though a little weird.”

"He wouldn't be a book lover if he wasn't weird."

The two men were silent for a moment until they began to laugh.

"Neil." said the younger man, extending his hand.

"Terry." the older man accepted the greeting. "Well, since I won't get any books here, I'd better go home and write some."

"Are you a writer?"

"Yes." the man flashed a mischievous smile. "And I suspect you are too, don't you?"

"Ah, just a weirdo to recognize another!"

"Haha true! Would you like some tea? I love meeting new colleagues! Especially when I need new ideas for writing. You understand the felling, don't you?”

"Sure!" Neil motioned for the man to walk in front of him. “Let's go to Regent Street, there's a great tea house there. My treat."

"You know what, Neil?" the man lowered the brim of his hat discreetly. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship!”


End file.
